Considered by many critics to be amongst the best books written in the last century, Good Morning, Midnight is about one woman's descent into the depths of despair. It's true, as another reviewer has written, that this is "the ultimate sad-sack self-manufactured-hard-luck gutter-eyed wine-swilling melancholy lady book," and I'd certainly encourage interested readers and fans of Rhys to consult Carole Angier's biographical study for insight into how Rhys transformed her personal demons into art while using art to confront, understand, and to some degree overcome her personal demons. Rhys' books, however - Wide Sargasso Sea and Good Morning, Midnight in particular - transcend the merely personal: they are pristine exemplars of a certain aspect of the human condition. Her style is minimalistic; every line is cut to the quick: the result is beautifully controlled and powerful writing. I think of her as being the female counterpart to authors such as Bukowski and Jim Thompson: if those writers appeal to you, Rhys is likely to do so as well. I sympathize, however, with the reviewer who called the book "senseless." The first time I read it, it seemed to me a mass of barely coherent fragments. When, following a mysterious compulsion, I re-read the book several years later, all the pieces suddenly fell into place, I saw the book as a whole, and knew I had tumbled upon something very potent and quite special.

Here's a final interesting tidbit. It's said that Jean Rhys was the favorite author of Jaqueline Kennedy Onassis - a telling choice for her to have made, to say the least.

Ok. Maybe I just hate Jean Rhys, but this one is even worse than Wide Sargasso Sea. Did you know there was a dead baby in this book? I DIDN'T. Because it is senseless. ( )

A gorgeously dark tale of desperate loneliness, detailed in all of its banal and boozy intensity, set in the bars and cafes of Paris. Themes of lost love, fading beauty and waning finances thread through the intermingled narratives of present reality and memories of the past. A very satisfying way to spend the better part of a rainy weekend, and something I'm likely read again (and perhaps again.) ( )

Oh Jean... oh, Jean. The ultimate sad-sack selfmanufactured-hard luck gutter-eyed wine-swilling melancholy lady book. For those on the brink of oblivion teetering cuspward read this chainsmoking between Merlot belches. Not prepared to demonstrate such wanton disregard for your health? Then you're not prepared to read this. Don't sweat anyone overhearing you listening to Cat Power. It doesn't matter anymore. Nothing does.